Lady Swan's Lover
by Moondancing Millie
Summary: Set in WW1 England. Emma Swan, long neglected by her husband, seeks comfort and companionship from her devilishly handsome new gardner, Killian Jones.


**A/N: Inspired by the 2015 BBC adaptation of _Lady Chatterley's Lover._ I do not own any characters, and any copyright infringement is unintentional.**

 _ **Emma Swan, long neglected by her husband, seeks comfort and companionship from her devilishly handsome new gardener, Killian Jones.**_

* * *

 _Guildford, England  
_ _November 1915_

Miss Emma Swan met Sir Neal Cassidy at a ball in 1913.

She hadn't expected it, really, to meet that night a man who would so irreversibly change the course of her life. At 19, she had already been out a few seasons and had met her fair share of "gentlemen" – oversized adolescents whose lips spoke of well-mannered romance but whose eager eyes screamed lust – and had expected Sir Neal to be no different. Certainly, while he surveyed her earlier that evening as her name was announced she'd felt a familiar blush of embarrassment crawl up her neck. But from the moment he'd saved her from a dance with Dr. Whale, the town physician – really, that glass of punch had been expertly aimed – and offered her his own hand, she couldn't help but be charmed by him.

His story was of no news to Emma; his family, extraordinarily wealthy from his family's legacy in antiques, was one in equal parts respected and feared in the village, due in no small part to the reputation of his father. A slight, spindly man who walked with a cane and took no pity on his struggling tenants, his health was now failing him and the major part of the responsibility of his businesses had now fallen on his only son who, rumour had it, was looking for a bride.

Emma had never dreamed it would be her – after all, who would look twice at the daughter of David Nolan, a local constable, and his wife Mary Margaret, who had been a schoolteacher before her marriage? Nevertheless, not 12 months after their initial meeting, Sir Neal had proposed marriage, and now, today, she was finally Lady Emma Cassidy.

The ringing of spoons meeting glasses pulled Emma from her reverie. Her father, dressed in a suit she knew he'd been saving almost a twelvemonth for, was stood to her left, raising his glass with a tear in his eye. Her stomach dropped guiltily; she'd missed the end of the speech that no doubt he'd spent a whole month preparing. Hastily she fixed a smile on her face and joined him in his toast, before turning to her husband and pecking him quickly, as was expected.

 _Husband._ How odd.

The rest of the wedding breakfast seemed like a blur; a never-ending cycle of people she didn't know clasping her hands and wishing her a happy married life. She felt like she was on those conveyor belts Neal had been talking about – not to her, naturally, but to her father; women were not expected to be capable of understanding such things. She knew she oughtn't to feel so ungrateful; after all, not every woman from her station in life was so lucky. Eighteen months ago she'd been destined to a life of embroidery in her mother's front room; now she was to be mistress of her very own household! Still, she couldn't help but wonder if this was all there was to married life – shaking hands and smiling, that is, while all the men did the talking.

There was one aspect of married life, however, that she couldn't help anticipating with a shiver of excitement, not that she'd been brazen enough to share it with anyone. But Emma knew from the volumes of romantic novels that she'd pored over, late at night, away from her mother's prying eyes, that there could be no better feeling than lying in the arms of one's beloved; that a woman could feel no more cherished than in the glow after making love…

Emma blushed at the thought now, as she sat at her dressing table. The moment was only seconds away! The couple had been ushered away to their suite at the nicest hotel Emma had ever been in, ready for them to commence their honeymoon the following morning. And now, after what had felt like an achingly long time, they were finally alone.

"So." Sir Neal cleared his throat, making his new wife jump. He gestured awkwardly to their four poster. "Shall we, uh…?"

This was hardly the romantic proposal that Emma had been wishing for. Nevertheless, she rose from her dressing table, and settled timidly on top of the bedclothes beside him. As he began to remove her robe, with trembling fingers, she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply…

Afterwards, with her new husband snoring beside her, Emma fingered the quilt pensively. Really, but it had been over and done with rather quickly, considering how much she had built it up in her head. She didn't feel so much cherished or desired, but rather a mare whose spirit he was in a rush to break. And i the last flickers of candlelight of her wedding day, she couldn't help but think that so far, married life had been a bit of a disappointment.

* * *

 _Ottery St. Mary, England  
February 1916_

It had been a long war for Killian Jones.

Sometimes, in his darkest moments, he looked back at the day, nearly two years ago, when he and his brother Liam had signed up so eagerly for this damned thing. Oh, what he would do differently now, if he could go back in time. He would drop to his knees and beg his brother not to go, that was for sure. And then, though he would never tell anyone else this for fear of being handed a white feather, he would bloody well make sure that he'd never gone away either.

But alas, time travel was impossible. And not only had Killian lost his left hand for his king and country, but he'd lost his only brother and best friend too.

The worst was when he would stir, in the early morning, not quite awake, when all seemed peaceful and perfect. And then his body became aware of the hard army hospital mattress beneath him, then the stump at the end of his arm, and finally, the stabbing pain in his gut from this fresh and irreparable hole in his life.

As Killian turned onto Dreamshade Lane, however, he couldn't help but feel the burden on his shoulders ease just a little. The train from Exeter had felt interminable, longer still the boat from France to Portsmouth. But now just mere steps separated him and his most adored Milah.

 _Milah._

Just the name running through his mind had kept him sane back in that hospital. It was true that there was not much he had left to live for: both parents had gone, succumbed to influenza nearly a decade ago, and now Liam, too. But now, back in their village, with the house he hoped they'd one day share in sight, it was easier than ever to picture her dark wavy tresses and piercing eyes.

Theirs hadn't been a conventional romance, it was true. Milah had arrived new to their hamlet just three years ago, quite out of the blue. The village gossips spoke of a broken marriage and ruined reputations, and most of what was deemed "polite society" – a limited group, given that most of the community was made up of rustic farmers like Killian and his brother – had eschewed the woman from social gatherings. All it had taken for Killian, however, was a flash of her smile – one, he'd wager, that hadn't been seen in a while – and he was thoroughly smitten.

And now that he was back, admittedly less of a man than he'd left, he could finally do what he'd been so desperate to do before he'd headed to France. He was going to make Milah Mrs. Killian Jones.

The sun had dropped now behind the house, bestowing upon the rooftop an amber halo. At the gate, Killian dropped his bag and brushed his hair out of his eyes ready for this long-awaited reunion. And then, with exhilaration fluttering in his stomach, he made his way up the path and knocked on the door.

Her face was an even more welcome sight than he'd anticipated. Her eyes lit up upon opening the door and she threw her arms around her neck, holding him close. As he rose his own arms to return the embrace, however, she stepped back, eyebrows furrowed.

"K-Killian?" she asked, a new tremor to her voice. He noticed her eyes were suddenly drawn to the pinned-up sleeve of his left arm. "What happened to you?"

He'd been expecting this, of course. It was impossible to hide what the war had done to him. But after all the ugly stares and whispered commentaries he'd received the whole trip home, he knew now he'd finally receive the sympathy and unconditional love and support he'd craved since his departure from the army hospital.

"Well," he began, unpinning his sleeve to show her. "I know it's a shock, love, but…"

He got no further, however, as his most beloved Milah promptly threw up at his feet.

* * *

 _Guildford, England  
April 1916_

Emma oughtn't, she supposed, to have been surprised.

On the platform, where she stood now, she recognised several other members of the community in the same muddy brown-green: Graham, her father's younger colleague; Reverend Booth; even Dr. Whale. So really it was to be expected, after so many other men in the area had signed up, that Neal would too.

It was, altogether, a rather jolly scene, considering the circumstances. Bunting flickered in the light breeze. The village band was in the station foyer, oom-pah-pah-ing. Women were fussing around their sons and spouses, tucking in rogue undershirts and smartening collars, giving off a cacophony of clucking rather like a brood of hens.

Emma, on the other hand, stood off to one side, with her son Henry on her hip and an attempt at an adequately sombre look on her face. Most other wives, come the whistle of the conductor, would be sobbing into their handkerchiefs. Emma, however, wondered if she'd notice a difference at all with her husband out of the house, considering how little attention he paid her.

That was of course, except for bedtime.

Somebody must have given a signal unseen to Emma, as there was a great flurry of activity towards the previously empty carriages. Neal turned now to embrace his only son, and then, as if as an afterthought, his wife.

"Look after the boy," he murmured, and she nodded, knowing better by now than to wish for a more affectionate sentiment such as the _I Love You_ s she'd been naïve enough in her early marriage to expect. With one last ruffle of Henry's hair, he climbed aboard the nearest carriage. Steam billowed from the stack atop the front engine, and the machine chugged clumsily from the station. Emma could barely keep her eyes on Neal amongst the sea of waving handkerchiefs, not that he was looking for her.

And then he was out of sight. No stranger to the tragedies that had already struck some of her neighbours, Emma couldn't help but wonder if she'd ever see him again. More than that, however, she wondered just what life could have in store for her next.

It was funny, she realised later as she looked back at that day, that it was just in that moment, that as she turned to step back inside the main station building, she collided with the broad-shouldered, shaggy-haired form of a Mr. Killian Jones.

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